The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(44)

Lucy winces. “I hate this part of the story. The hook got caught in Em’s bottom lip!”

Poppy gasps. “Oh, heavens! That must have hurt like a . . . motherducker.” She winks at Lucy.

I laugh. “It did! Like a wasp bite—ten wasp bites. I grabbed for my mouth, and felt something strange. Looking down my nose, I could see the fish hook, hanging from my lip. I started to scream.

“My dad rushed over to me. I’ll never forget his face, a mix of horror and sorrow and fear. ‘No!’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘No!’”

“He was scared shitless,” Lucy says. “That’s when Uncle Bruno took over. He grabbed a set of pliers from his tackle box.”

“Pliers?” Poppy asks, her eyes wide.

“Tiny fishing pliers,” I say. “He ordered me to hold still. I tried not to whimper, but I’d never felt such pain. I squeezed my eyes and gripped Daria’s hand. Uncle Bruno clamped the pliers on the hook. Hot white fire seared my lip. That’s the last thing I remember before I passed out.”

“Uncle Bruno drove like an effing maniac all the way home,” Lucy says. “When they got back, Em’s bottom lip had swollen to the size of a peach. Nonna was furious. But it was too late. Uncle Bruno had made a mess of her lip.” Lucy’s voice is wistful now, and she stares at my bottom lip. “It’s a lot better now, but the scar is still there, if you look closely.”

In the Grand Canal below, waves lap the concrete dock, methodical and rhythmic. The part of the story I’ve never told comes to me, as clearly as the twinkling lights across the Laguna Veneta.

“My dad’s balled-up T-shirt was pressed to my lip,” I say. “It stank of fish and sweat and salt water. He lifted it, so Nonna could see the injury. She leaned in and put a hand to her throat.

“‘Dio mio,’ she said, crossing herself. ‘There is no hope now. She will never find a husband with a face like this.’”

Lucy clutches my arm. “No, she didn’t!”

“My dad thought we should go to the ER. I remember so clearly. Nonna lifted her palms upward as she walked back to her apartment. ‘Perché preoccuparsi?’ she said.”

Why bother?





Chapter 23




Poppy

1960

Trespiano

The day of Rico’s visit arrived with a torrent of rain. Sheets fell from the sky, turning the fields into a patchwork of ponds. But weather never kept Mamma from Sunday mass. The Cathedral of Saint Romulus of Fiesole was cold and drafty. I knelt with my icy hands clenched in prayer, begging for a miracle. Please help Rico find the right words. Help us convince Papà of our love. Please, God, do not take away the one good thing in my life, the only person I have ever wanted.

We left the church and traveled home, all seven of us squeezed into Papà’s old Fiat. Rain ricocheted from the streets. Rico had planned to ride his bike—the buses didn’t run on Sundays. Surely he wouldn’t cycle thirteen kilometers in a downpour. We had no phone at our farmhouse, so he had no way to contact me. He would have to wait another day before approaching my father, a thought that left me simultaneously crushed and relieved.

I went about my Sunday chores, plucking eggs from the henhouse, sweeping the barn. At two o’clock, I set the table for dinner. Rosa was making artichoke salad again, something she had heard increased fertility. “Alberto and I are ready to start our family,” she reminded my mother, who stood at the stove, adding oregano to her marinara sauce.

I jumped when I heard a knock at the door. My stomach pitched. I will never forget the look that passed between my sister and me. She knew. She knew that Rico had arrived. And she was terrified. For him, and for me.

“It will be fine,” I said, pretending to be calm.

I smoothed my hair and untied my apron on the way to the door. There he stood, his brown britches and white shirt drenched. He was wearing a necktie, and I stifled a giggle. I’d never seen him in such dapper clothing. His face bloomed when he saw me.

“Not for you this time,” he said, looking down at his bouquet of soaking-wet daisies. “For your mother.”

My heart overflowed. How could my parents resist his charm?

Before I had time to let him in, Rosa rushed over, pushing me aside. “Papà will kill you—both of you. Go. Now. Before you cause Paolina trouble.”

“But Rosa, Rico has come all this way.”

“That will make no difference to Papà. He and Mamma have put all their hopes in Ignacio. They will be furious at anyone who comes between you—especially someone who is not Italian.” She looked at Rico. “Go, please. We must keep this our secret, for now.”

“Just one moment with your papà,” Rico said firmly, brushing past Rosa. “That is all I ask.”

He entered the house. My heart was beating erratically, like a metronome gone haywire. I wanted to have faith in Rico, but Rosa’s words rang true. Might Papà actually kill him?

In the kitchen, hiding my trembling hands behind my back, I introduced my mamma.

“Buongiorno, Signora Fontana,” Rico said, extending the flowers.

She yanked them from his grip, craning her neck toward the archway leading to our living room, where my papà rested.

“Grosso errore,” she whispered. Big mistake.